Free Bittersweet by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore Page A

Abby, and Dum and Dee careened at top speed down the forested embankment toward the overburdened girl did Emily stand and yell, “Stop. Come.” On the other porch, Annie looked up obediently, as though one of the dogs herself. Quicksilver emerged hanging his head, but it fell to Annie, carrying a giant plastic ball under her arm, to rescue the au pair and the children from the rest of the exuberant canines.
    Seemingly oblivious to the domestic hubbub, Athol tookEv and me into the master suite to show us the last bit of renovation. He crossed his arms skeptically and surveyed the neat, tight room. “We wanted to expand,” he said, “but the footprints are protected. Can’t build up or out.”
    “Mum doesn’t want anyone’s house to be as big as hers,” Ev said to me.
    “Don’t be petty, Genevra, it doesn’t become you,” Athol scolded. He was tilting his head, scrutinizing the floor. “It’s crooked.” He turned to me. “Doesn’t it seem crooked?”
    “It looks fine,” Ev said.
    Outside, Abby wandered by. Athol’s eyes followed the dog as she passed the window. “I hate having to use John.”
    “He works hard,” Ev responded evenly.
    “I don’t see why Father doesn’t just send him off. When I’m in charge, I won’t confuse backwards tradition with loyalty,” Athol grumbled, his jaw growing tight.
    Out on the road, Ev fumed. “I always think I’m going to love it here, and then I come back and I remember what they are—arrogant and thoughtless and moneygrubbing.” I nodded and agreed, and did not say that the floor had, in fact, looked a little crooked to me.

CHAPTER TWELVE
The Painting
    D inner that night was held at Trillium, the white, multistoried cottage Samson had built on the spit of Winloch beyond Indo’s, on the peninsula that lay between the outer bay and Winslow Bay, with a 270-degree view of the lake. Standing on the whitewashed porch, one felt as if on a boat, ever on a set course southward. Trillium was grander than the other Winloch homes—along with its three stories and the best view, it boasted a wide, mown lawn. It had passed from man to man, father to firstborn son, through the generations: Samson to Banning the first, to Bard, then Birch. Someday it would be Athol’s, and then little Ricky’s. How disappointed the Winslows would have been if they’d had only daughters.
    Tilde stood by the door, the first to greet us. At the sight of her, my mouth went dry—I didn’t know if I could bring myself to ask someone so intimidating to give me my fate. She was dressed impeccably—crisp ivory shirt, pressed raw silk capri pants in a stunning turquoise, luscious pearls around her throat. “Care to put on a sweater, dear?” she asked as she eyed Ev’s décolletage, prominent in her coral sundress.
    “Jesus, Mum.” Ev huffed past her mother and into the room within, where a crowd had already gathered. I handed Tilde the cornmuffins I’d baked, each topped with its own plucked daisy. Tilde took the platter from my hands as if it was a foreign object.
    “How … thoughtful,” she said, looking down at the muffins.
    My tongue stuck against my palate—my mother had taught me one could never go wrong by bringing something to a dinner party, and Birch had used the term
spur-of-the-moment
. Besides, Ev should have said something to save me from committing a faux pas. I almost offered to take the muffins back, but just then Birch emerged from the party and clapped his hands as if in delight at the sight of me.
    “Tilde! She brought cupcakes!” he exclaimed, heartily grabbing one and tearing into it with his teeth.
    “You aren’t supposed to eat the flower,” I apologized as I watched a petal disappear into his mouth.
    He laughed heartily, clapping Tilde on the back, and, as though she were a windup doll on the fritz, her smile returned mechanically. I felt faint—I knew I had to ask them, straight out, whether Bittersweet would be ours for the summer. I didn’t